Arti’s Bistro was surprisingly empty. Only a few, like me, were taking advantage of the early bird special.  I sat at my familiar table, looking around to see if I recognized anyone. I did not, even though I knew I had seen a few of them before. I should have focused on what was wrong.

The waiter approached with a glass of iced tea. “Good evening, Mr. Blake.” He handed me the seniors menu. “Welcome back.”

I glanced at his name tag. “Thank you, Luis,” He knew I wanted tea rather than water, and now the recollection slid into place comfortably: We had known each other for years. Thank God for name tags, I thought. They save the embarrassment of short-term memory loss, which I had been battling for a few months. The chemo was also taking its toll. I felt weak, now, most of the time—in both mind and body.

As I looked at the menu, another couple entered. They, too, had familiar faces, but I couldn’t place them. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw them approaching, and I prayed I would remember. “Jeremy!” the man exclaimed, clapping me on the shoulder. “It’s so good to find you here!” I looked up and smiled. Recognition stalled, and my vacant expression was apparent. “It’s Amos and Lindsey,” he said.

“Of course,” I nodded at both. He was portly, with copious white hair and a goatee. He wore a beige sports jacket and an open-collar blue dress shirt. I dipped into my memory, trying to clarify this familiarity. I glanced at Lindsey, smiling, hoping for a nudge. Dark hair that was greying and cropped short framed a pleasant face, free of makeup, dominated by pale blue eyes that sparkled. Laugh wrinkles around her eyes and mouth came very close to dredging up my recall: I remembered her, but not in any context.

I half-rose, inviting them to join me, pleased that I had not faltered too obviously. It would all come back to me shortly, I was sure.  “It’s nice to see you both,” I said, trying to appear relaxed. “How long has it been?”

“Just a month,” Amos said as they took chairs on either side, adding “but don’t be upset if you don’t remember.” He smiled broadly. “It’s common!”

“We used to forget everything,” Lindsey said in polite exaggeration. I let the curious phrase pass. Used to?

They seemed eager to put me at ease, which I really appreciated, but I was stretching to find a trigger to bring the memory back. “We fondly recall the times we spent with you and Emma at the beach cabin,” Lindsey continued, her eyes penetrating mine, encouraging me to remember.

Emma. My wife. But I had been alone, now, for…how long? A year? Two? It slowly crept back: I had lost her almost two years ago. Leukemia. A long battle. I suddenly felt saddened by this. More, as well, by the sudden awareness that I had no family to share this loss with, to help me keep my memory alive. But this slipped memory suddenly became a burden: I miss her so much!

“Emma,” I murmured, almost to myself. “Yes.” Remnants of grief surfaced.

Lindsey reached out to cover my hand with hers. “Her funeral was peaceful for us all,” she said.

“You seemed to hold up well, afterward,” Amos continued. He tilted his head quizzically as if expecting a response.

I was on the verge of a recollection, my mind reaching back. An uneasy thought lay in the shadows. I dreaded it.

“There was the other funeral, too,” he said softly. “Just last month.”

“Do you remember that one, Jeremy?” Lindsey asked, her hand still covering mine.

I frowned. The memory was so close, struggling to interrupt my other thoughts. “I…I’m not sure.” It was as much a question as a statement.

They both fixed me in their gaze, and I shifted uneasily, fear suddenly driving my other feelings out of range.

“It was ours, Jeremy,” Lindsey whispered.

Amos reached for my other hand as I went limp. Thoughts tried desperately to form—just there, under the ragged edge of awareness. I was vaguely dismayed that I was not surprised by this revelation, yet nowhere within my mind was doubt or denial.

The fog shrouding the present was being lifted. I had missed slippery details. Luis had not brought them water. He had not come to take my order. The tea, the menu: had that been yesterday?

I lifted my eyes to look at them, sitting on either side of the empty table. They grasped my hands lightly.

“Yours!” I muttered, and the memory suddenly blossomed—the two caskets, the floral bouquets, the elderly priest in black, their adult son and daughter kneeling at the funeral mass. “I gave a eulogy, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Amos said.

“It was lovely,” Lindsey said. “And you offered such comfort to our children.” She looked over at Amos. “It was a blessing for them that the accident came so suddenly. Neither of us suffered.”

Memories were now beginning to cascade—images I had lost were falling into consciousness like dominos: The four of us often met here for dinner. We played bridge once a month. Emma, my love.

I felt queasy. “But if you are both…?” I stumbled. “Then how…?” I searched their expressions for understanding.

“Then how can you see us?” Amos finished the question. “Because of the most recent passing, Jeremy. It’s why we’re here.”

“It was early this morning,” said Lindsey, squeezing my hand, a weak smile crossing her face.

They both waited for me to grasp it. I tried to dismiss the notion. It was not credible. But suddenly it coiled around me, squeezing out a touch of melancholy to match my grief.

“It was me, wasn’t it?” I said.

“Sometimes the transition is a struggle,” nodded Amos.

“We want to help you through it,” Lindsey added.